


The Dames and the Horses

by Verabird



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, F/M, Historical AU, Idiots in Love, M/M, Regency Romance, Slow Burn, because they're idiots, but will spend ages faffing about, who will get together
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-21
Updated: 2016-06-26
Packaged: 2018-05-15 07:40:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5777212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verabird/pseuds/Verabird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Duchess of Fitton is worried about her son, and who wouldn't be, his beautiful soul isn't enough to convince the rest of the peerage that he's worthy of a title. So now she's searching for another young man, a gentlemen, who will be able to guide him through a trial of etiquette.</p><p>Colonel Richardson is back home after years travelling. He's a war hero, and no one will dare mention the fact that he left in disgrace with his medals stripped from him. His main lifeline is his daughter who he's determined to protect from social scandal and ruin at all costs.</p><p>Martin Crieff's family isn't wealthy. They don't have titles. They don't have medals. They could do with money by any means, and if that happens to be in the form of a dowry then so be it. Now he's stuck in a forced engagement with a woman who is entirely unsuitable for him.</p><p>And no one can get rid of Sir Shipwright. He's constantly hanging round the Duchess' house making silver-tongued smarmy comments to everybody's irritation, but he simply won't leave.</p><p>Marlas Regency AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A bird never flew on one wing

**Author's Note:**

> I experimented with it being hot air balloons, but that was just as ridiculous as it sounds, so it's horses. Martin loves horses.

 

The cold air bit at his skin, daggers across his cheeks, eyes closed against the satisfying rush of wind on his face. Martin curled the fingers of one hand through the horse's mane and gripped the reigns tighter with the other. The leather cracked beneath his grip, knuckles turning white, as he spurred her on.

"Come on old girl," He murmured, more to himself than to the horse. It was no time for a ride. There were a million other places he was supposed to be, bound by duty, but to be galloping across the moors was a far more attractive prospect. Here it was safe and there were no family members to remind him of his responsibilities. He was free.

You might even like her. I ended up liking your father quite a decent amount.

He gave a gentle kick, rounding a bend and descending a bank towards the river. He slowed to a trot, glancing down at the steady stream of water by his side. A smattering of rain was landing across the smooth surface, tiny circles rippling outwards towards the reedy bank. He shifted their movement sideways to avoid the slippery mud and dangerous curve towards the water.

It doesn't matter want you want, you must do it for the sake of the family, our good name's at stake. If nothing else, do it for him, it's what he would have wanted.

Martin closed his eyes and turned his face up towards the clouds, heaving under the weight of a thousand water droplets they threatened to crack at any moment. A sudden splash of wetness on his cheek startled him for just a moment. He was aware suddenly of how cold he was. He'd barged out the house and slammed the door shut behind him in such haste he hadn't even shrugged on a jacket at all let alone a suitable riding jacket. Just in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat the rain threatened to soak him to a chill. For some reason the prospect wasn't altogether unappealing. Perhaps if he froze to death or passed away later from pneumonia he'd save himself the pain of an appallingly mismatched marriage.

What was the point in forcing him to sit through all those romantic sonnets, translations of passionate French poems, recognition of operas regarding lovers dying for each other, dramatic Latin declarations, Ancient Greek tragedies, what on earth was the point if he wasn't allowed to act on any of it. A typical classic education that showed him the thorough emotions that love could wrack, and he'd never be allowed the simplest taste. Not that he had a clue what love meant, not yet, but he might one day and now he'd never get the chance to learn.

The rain was falling thick and fast now. The light cotton of his shirt wasn't enough to shield him and it clung to his arms while his auburn curls flattened and plastered to his forehead. Another gentle kick and a light tug on the reigns and he set off towards the house. On a clear day he could see the red brick prominently standing tall amidst a sea of green fields, but today the house was covered in grey mist and sheets of rain. A perfect atmosphere, Martin thought wryly.

He pulled up just outside the stables, dismounting and running a hand through his sopping hair. The rain had eased, falling in a steady drizzle. A dark figure, coat pulled up tightly around them was standing in the shelter of the stable. Martin squinted, but relaxed with a sigh almost immediately.

"Not a word, Karl," He said swiftly, handing over the reigns with a nod. "Thank you."

Karl returned the nod with a smile, clicking his tongue as he led the horse back into the dry stables.

Martin knew Karl wouldn't mention it. Despite being one of the worst riders in his younger years, Martin had grown in confidence and style, and now every moment riding was therapeutic without match. He knew he wouldn't be able to live without his trips through the fields, come rain or shine, yet he was also aware of the trouble he'd be in if his family knew just how often he took the horses out. It would be seen as too much of an expense, a waste of their stamina or of his time. Martin instinctively shook his head at the image of his mother with pursed lips informing him that his habits weren't fitting of a gentleman.

He entered the house through the back entrance, cutting through the kitchen and heading for the parlour where a roaring fire was burning in the grate. Thankful for the warmth, Martin slipped off his waistcoat and shirt, hanging them over the metal bars before taking his shoes and socks off too. He swapped his socks for the dry robe that was hanging from the rail heated by the embers, slipping into the gown and taking a seat in one of the large armchairs before the fire.

He could hear bustle about the house, his mother flitting anxiously as she burnt off excess anxiety concerning his evening plans. Maids were probably laying out various outfits and hats and gloves and all other sorts of ridiculous things. He sighed and sunk further back into the cushions.

Regardless of your thoughts Martin, you simply cannot refuse an invitation from the Duchess of Fitton of all people. You will make yourself presentable and you will go to meet your fiancé. Future fiancé at least, we can discuss details of the formal proposal later.

To Martin, the whole situation was akin to a particularly horrific nightmare and he wanted no part in it. He'd met the Duchess once or twice over the years, never in more than a fleeting capacity. She reminded him of one of the statues tucked away in the garden folly, a grimacing demi-god or perhaps a fearsome mythical creature. Beautifully carved but set in cold stone nonetheless.

Martin had just about let his eyes drift closed, a pleasant warmth from the fire washing over him, the delicate scent of burning logs and crisp kindling soothing him to peace, when the door burst open with a slam and a triumphant wail of "found him!" Martin opened one eye and saw the face of his younger brother contorted into a grin of relish. Younger, yet taller and stronger and with heaps more confidence, and Martin had always struggled to hide his resentment.

"I think you're in a lot of trouble," Simon said, grin firmly set, taunting tone unremoved.

"I'm a grown man," Martin groaned, wishing he could be anywhere except this house. The arguments were never worth it, but if he remained passive and didn't complain he felt like he was perpetually falling down a great pit. He closed his eyes with an expression of pain, then stood, gathering his dressing gown about him and pushing past Simon into the hall. His mother was waiting for him, an air of impatience surrounding her like an ominous black cloud.

"Martin! There you are! Finally, we've been searching for hours and-...what on earth are you doing in your dressing gown? The carriage will be arriving in less than half an hour!"

Martin barely took in any of the torrent, resorting instead to stare at a particularly threadbare patch of carpet. His protestations couldn't stop strong hands pushing him up the narrow flight of stairs towards his room where his evening dress had been laid out ready.

"Hurry up," His mother said with desperation before leaving him alone once more. Martin dressed quickly, afterwards running a towel through his hair and attempting to tame his unruly curls. Nothing seemed to make them lie flat no matter what he tried. He sighed and decided to give up, heading down the stairs back to the hall. He caught sight of himself in the hall mirror, full length, taking in the black tailcoat, white cravat, gold double breasted waistcoat. From some angles he looked passably alright, but from others he looked ridiculous. His mother was standing waiting, watching him carefully. Martin caught her expression and he felt his heart sink several notches. There was unmistakable sadness there, perhaps tinged with a little disappointment.

After a moment's pause she cleared her throat. "Do try and be polite, remember your manners, don't talk too much you don't want to bore anyone, but do try and make conversation, interesting conversation, don't make that expression you always do, the one when you're clearly thinking of something else, it might be seen as rude, oh and the Duchess is Your Grace and after that Madam, but be polite to everyone and-oh! God, Martin, I'm so sorry."

Martin was caught in an uncomfortable purgatory as he heard his mother's voice crack and her eyes begin to water. She reached quickly for a handkerchief while Martin stepped closer offering himself up in a warm embrace. He could feel her shaking beneath his fingertips, back rising and falling with a tumble of sobs.

"I know you think this is cruel Martin, but ever since your father died it's been....well, hard, and we desperately need the money. She's from a good family, they're a good sort, military I think. Please try. For me."

Martin bit his lip and drew back. There was such melancholy in his mother's eyes, he longed to see her smile the way she had before, and he desperately wanted her to stop wearing the black of mourning. It was way past the socially acceptable period of grief.

"I promise," He said softly. "I promise I'll try my best."

There wasn't anything else he could say, and now he really would have to try, because he never reneged on a promise.

 

* * *

 

The carriage ride was soporific and dull. Martin kept the black drapes closed and his head rested against the cushioned seat so that he didn't have to watch vast expanses of countryside and freedom pass by. He'd never felt so alone. He'd never had friends, not real friends anyway. He'd got on reasonably well with his siblings as any sibling could, and the occasional servant had imparted kindness and wisdom to him, but beyond that he'd seen so little of the world. He spent many afternoons pouring through large atlases with yellow pages, tracing his fingertips along roads and rivers he wanted to explore, scanning over oceans and mountain ranges. He wanted desperately to travel.

He heard the wheels slow and crunch along gravel signifying his arrival. He bit his lip, took a deep breath, and smoothed an unruly curl away from his face. A footman opened his door and he ducked his head to emerge onto a curved drive surrounded by topiaries and a low hedge maze. Martin frowned at the haphazard nature with which expensive plants and flowers were arranged, large leaves dripping with the remains of the afternoon's rainfall, splashing russet slate and tiles, sliding through the noticeable cracks.

His eyes slid towards a well-constructed outhouse connected to the stables. The row of births was huge, fit for a dozen horses at least. They would all be grazing inside due to the rain, but perhaps on a better day the surrounding fields would be scattered with them.

He wasn't concentrating as he made his way up a set of shallow stairs and was shown into the hall, his overcoat and hat taken from him with a passing nod and muttered thanks, and then he was directed into a wide sitting room. The fire was ornate, but the logs beneath were sparse and the mantle had the lightest coating of dust. Not neglected as such, yet not a priority to clean on a daily basis. Colourful furniture was placed deliberately over worn sections of carpet with a precise care. A well-played pianoforte stood proudly next to the mantle-piece, shine over the scratches, a collection of crinkled sheet music littering the closed lid. The room was warm and dry, homely indeed, but a faux-grandeur permeated the atmosphere.

Martin stood with his hands clasped behind his back, swaying delicately from heel to toe, waiting with a nervous impatience. The Duchess wasn't a prompt woman, infamously so, but he'd expected some sort of reception. As if to answer his thoughts, the door burst open, the brass knob connecting with the wall on the other side with a startling thud, and a figure stumbled through.

Martin looked up in alarm at the sudden intruder, grateful that his own entrance had not been so embarrassing, not that there was anyone to see. Upon seeing the man's slightly unkempt hair flop over his forehead, Martin absently reached up to sweep back his own unruly curls. The man practically shrieked, a shrill sound of excitement and glee as he bounded over, took Martin's hand in his and shook it quite violently.

"I've been waiting all day for this," He said enthusiastically, grin broadening from ear to ear. Martin's disconcertion transformed swiftly to confusion and then to a small smile of his own, a product of the infectious nature the man swept into the room with him. "You must be Mr Crieff, or is it Sir Crieff? Most people I know are Sirs or have some silly other name we have to say before their actual name. Anyway, nice to meet you, I'm-"

A resounding cough came from the doorway. Martin's hand was still trapped between two of the newcomer's, still engaged in an energised handshake. He gently extracted it and pulled it back, resting it in the palm of the other, not sure if it was in any way crushed.

A liveried man was standing between the door frame looking quite flushed as if he'd run a great distance to keep up with his charge. He cleared his throat between deep breaths and managed to stumble out. "The Most Honourable, The Marquis of Fitton to make the acquaintance of Mr Crieff." The poor servant resumed his panting as he backed out of the room.

Martin glanced back at the man and blinked a few times. So this was the Duchess' son, a far cry from what he was expecting.

"So you're a Mr after all. Brilliant!"

"Forgive me, I..I-uh," Martin stuttered out awkwardly, feeling his cheeks warm under the pressure. "How should I address you?"

The man stuck his tongue out the side of his mouth and furrowed his brow in deep concentrated thought. "It's meant to be Lord Fitton, but I hate that. Fitton isn't even my last name, but apparently that's what you're supposed to do, at least mum says. Just call me Arthur." Arthur beamed, all thought lines and frowns dissipating in one smile. "Not in front of anyone. I don't want you to get into trouble. Mum sent me down to see what you were like, she wants me to like you. I think I do."

Martin's head spun out in several directions, mostly sent twirling from the strange colloquial nature with which Arthur referred to his mother. It went past every social protocol he'd ever read about. He became aware of silence and quickly nodded not wishing to offend.

"Everyone will love you," Arthur announced cheerily. "I can tell. Especially mum, and I know she wanted us to get along, I think she thinks I can learn a lot from you."

Martin wondered how Arthur could possibly make such judgement after only one stuttering sentence, but he gave him the benefit of the doubt. Arthur started rapidly describing his life-story without prompting, easily letting Martin in on his hopes for the future. Something about not worrying too much about marriage even though he was expected to, and more concerned about making sure the horse was happy, even if mum wouldn't let him ride her very often.

Martin frowned and waved a hand between them. "One moment, did you say, horse? Horse, singular?"  
"Of course," Arthur replied, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Gerti. No e on the end, it ends in an i, because I couldn't fit all the letters on when I was carving it onto the gate."

"But your stable's massive."

"What's the point in having loads of horses if you only need one? I can't ride well at all and it's only myself and mum in this whole house."

Martin tilted his head slightly, still confused by the bizarre process of events and conversation. He allowed Arthur to continue, far too nervous to add much of his own to the conversation, but Arthur's cheery tumble of words was oddly comforting. After a few moments other guests of the dinner party began to arrive and Martin looked around for a woman young enough to be proffered as his fiancé. So far no one was fitting the bill. Just a bunch of men with imposing figures clapping each other on the shoulder. One such man wandered over and inclined his head to Arthur in greeting.

"My Lord," He said with gracious politeness. "Perhaps you could introduce me to this new face."

Arthur beamed at the simplest of tasks bestowed upon him. "Mr Crieff," He said quickly, giving the words a certain joyfulness. "He'll be visiting lots in future, at least I hope so, and this is Her-" Arthur was cut off by the newcomer's gentle clearing of his throat, he looked meaningfully at Arthur, showing kindness in the sharp handsome face. "I mean, Sir Shipwright."

Martin raised an eyebrow, but quashed it quickly as he shook hands. Sir Shipwright's hands were very soft compared to his own, slightly calloused and roughed from jointly caring for his own horses and helping with menial tasks round the house. This man looked like he barely ever had to lift a finger to help himself. If Sir Shipwright noticed, he didn't react, simply smiled warmly and engaged in an easy conversation.

"When will Her Grace be, gracing, us with her presence," He said smoothly, giving Arthur a missable half-wink. Arthur grinned back.

"She's waiting for everyone to arrive so she can make an entrance."

"Of course she is."

As if on cue, a hush travelled through the crowd and everyone turned to face the doorway. "Her Grace, The Duchess of Fitton."

Martin considered her less imposing than he'd built her up to be in his mind. She seemed to commandeer the space around her, but it came from a place of respect rather than fear or social standing. Chatter resumed once she began to make her way around the room.

"I wonder if Her Grace forgot to organise the horn section. I heard no fanfare." Sir Shipwright said pleasantly, turning back to their snug trio. Martin looked nothing less than alarmed and noticing his discomfort he continued. "We're old friends, tormenting each other for years."  
"Sorry, stupid question," Martin began, inwardly admonishing himself that he couldn't start a sentence without excusing himself for it before hand. "Is there a Duke of Fitton?"

"There...was." Sir Shipwright clasped his hands behind his back and watched the Duchess pass through the guests.

"Oh, my apologies, I'm so sorry, I didn't realise."

"Oh no no no, dear chap, he's still alive. Far away in the colonies by now I expect."

Martin opened his mouth to say something, but was interrupted by chance as the Duchess swept towards them. Arthur curtsied, which Martin thought was frankly a bizarre choice, and he himself bowed, eyes glancing sideways to make sure he inclined as far as Sir Shipwright.

"Your Grace," Sir Shipwright intoned with severity, a smile curling at the corner of his lips. The Duchess appeared to give him the briefest of nods but it may have been a trick of the candles.

"You must be Mr Crieff," She stated. "I haven't seen you in years. Somehow you're just as small."

"Um-um-uh, yes, of course, yes, Your Grace, I'm honoured to make your acquaintance. Reacquaintance. Yes, hello, I mean, good evening."

The Duchess narrowed her eyes at him and Martin suddenly felt like the pieces of meat strung up in the windows of butcher shops. He shifted slightly between his feet.

"And I see you've met my son. What do you think?"

"Of-...of your son?"

"Yes of course, my son, any opinions?"

Martin's mouth gaped open. A distant echoey admonishment from his mother about catching flies swept through his mind. "He's...very pleasant. Very...nice indeed."

The Duchess' mouth pressed into a thin line as she glanced him up and down, taking him in, calculating. After a long moment's silence she hummed her approval and nodded. "Yes, you'll do nicely."  
With the mysterious words she nodded and glided off to the next set of guests. Sir Shipwright turned to face him with a smirk and single raised eyebrow. "Fascinating, isn't she?"

"Yes," Martin said quickly, still watching the train of the muted navy and pink taffeta that drifted along behind the woman. "I've never encountered someone quite so..."

He trailed off, but neither of his companions noticed or requested him finish. Arthur had wandered over to the pianoforte and was lightly pressing a single key, and Sir Shipwright's eyes seemed almost glazed over as he stared into the middle distance.

"She's quite something. Fiercely intelligent and very, very..."

Martin became aware of how ridiculous the pair of them must look. Glassy faces and mouths resting in silent 'O's, for two very different reasons, but the effect was similar. A light tinkling of a bell announced the summons for dinner and they passed through to the dining room. Martin found himself sandwiched between Arthur and a seat that remained empty. He smiled nervously at each young woman, but they all seemed attached to an arm or far too old to match the description he'd been given.

"Eating with other people is always fun, isn't it?" Arthur said loudly into his left ear. Martin agreed with him, suddenly finding his anxious spirits lifted at the sound of a voice so uninhibited with melancholy. "It's usually just the two of us, or three."

"Three?"

"Herc. He's sometimes round. A lot of the time actually."

Martin followed Arthur's gaze to where Sir Shipwright was now pulling back the Duchess' chair, making a gentlemanly fuss over her comfort. The Duchess rolled her eyes in an uncharacteristic gesture of her rank, and shuffled the chair in herself.

Martin's eyes shifted from the gentle commotion to two empty seats with made up places. He knew who one must belong to, and secretly he was hoping she'd never arrived, or never exist in the first place. Anything to avoid the sandpaper feeling in his throat and sickness in his stomach when he reminded himself of why he was really here.

"Fashionably late I see," Sir Shipwright was remarking. He received an irritated 'hmph!' in reply and a muttered response that they were starting anyway. Martin found the course of events oddly calming. The combination of Arthur's easy going chatter and the best meal he'd had in weeks served to relax his nerves. He quickly discovered that the Duchess of Fitton had two smiles, one terrifying, the other genuinely warm that crinkled her eyes and gave her a laugh like falling crystal.

The third course was well under way when the Duchess suddenly raised her hand, pausing an anecdote, and the table fell silent. Silence was hardly vacuous, as the gently rich sounds of piano keys were floating through the open door of the dining room, gaining and losing speed and volume in intensely timed movements.

"Ridiculous man," She muttered. "Someone drag him in here so he can apologise for being so late."

Sir Shipwright looked vaguely amused and turned to his side that contained Martin and Arthur. "Pathetic," He said with a smile.

"Excuse me?" Martin said, frowning, wondering what provoked such a response.  
"Oh do forgive me," Sir Shipwright said quickly. "It's my pronunciation of course. Allow me to be more French. Pathetique, Beethoven's eighth, second movement, in C minor too if I'm not mistaken. The old fool is very out of date, by ten years or so, he should be playing Beethoven's twenty-sixth if he wants to impress anyone."

The soft music slowed to a halt and there was a gentle scrape followed by footsteps. A liveried servant appeared in the doorway first, clearing his throat to make the customary announcement. Martin raised his eyes in interest.

"Colonel Richardson of the first cavalry..."

Martin didn't hear the rest. His senses seemed to stop working for a split second. His fingertips slipped on the base of a crystal glass, his chest clenched with a tense sensation he'd only ever felt while flying through the countryside on the back of a horse, and his eyelids stuttered a blink that couldn't be curtailed.

Colonel Richardson, yes he'd definitely caught that part, cut a magnificent figure in his red and navy uniform trimmed with white and gold. He was broad-shouldered, but also tall and seemingly elegant, his hands folded neatly over one another in a mesh of long fingers and soft palms. Martin's mind had added that adjective to the description he was internalising, but for some reason he imagined that this man's hands would be inexplicably soft. Time slowed to a pleasant stupor he was happy resting in.

"...and his daughter, the Lady Verity Richardson."

Martin's eyes slid to the smaller figure standing next to the statuesque handsomeness of Colonel Richardson. He took her in, light smile, neatly coifed hair, delicate crepe dress, exuding charm and beauty, far too young, much much too young, sickeningly clashing with any vision he had for his fiancé. And suddenly time seemed to speed up again, and the world was spinning him out of the frozen stupor and into a whirlwind of panic and despair.


	2. Happy is the country that has no history

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your kind words and initial support, it's honestly so inspiring and means a lot.

"Would you help me do the back?"

Douglas took his eyes from the reflection of Verity's face in the three-sided mirror and set his attention on the back of her hair. The front dropped in pretty ringlets while the back remained shiny and straight. He'd raised two daughters near on by himself, so curling and styling hair was second nature to him. He carefully passed her hair through his fingers, twisting it into delicate knots just above the nape of her neck. He sighed, placing his hands on her shoulders and looking back in the mirror.

"How do I look?"

"Beautiful."

He sighed again and pulled the chair out from beneath his daughter as she stood. She was nearly as tall as him now and he stepped out the way as she pulled her dress out around her. A vision in lilac chiffon.

"Wait, let me just..." He held out his hand, heading back to the dressing table to lift a small pearl box. He removed the delicate flower from within and brushed a strand of Verity's hair out the way, clipping it in place. "There we go. All done."

Verity smiled as best she could, then reached down to take her father's hand, curling her small fingers in his. "Don't look so sad. Maybe he'll be nice."

"My main hope is that he isn't boring."

"I hope so too."

They both laughed, a little hollow, a little tense, but nonetheless better for sharing it. Douglas offered his arm and Verity gladly took it as they made their way down the stairs and into the hall.

"You deserve more than boring."

"I'm sure he won't be."

"Most men are."

Verity gave her father a playful shove and he chuckled, grinning down at her. She was young, beautiful, far from shy, and Douglas wished she could have the world without needing to tie her to a man. However, needs must. Douglas was more than aware of the crisis verging just on his horizon, and if he could marry off his daughter then at least she'd be safe, cut all ties from her disgraced father. He just wanted her to be safe first, happy second. If only having both were easy.

"You're not boring," Verity said suddenly. "Neither's Herc."

"Sir Shipwright is the dullest man you know."

"I know two men! You and him. Well, perhaps that's a little of an understatement, but still. I've hardly met any men. How do you know this is the right one for me?"

"I don't," Douglas admitted. "He's from a good family, I met his father a long time ago, and Carolyn says he's grown into someone fairly agreeable to look at, and you know Carolyn is hardly complementary at the best of times."

Douglas held out his hand to help Verity climb onto her horse, but she ignored his help and swung her leg over with ease. Douglas' heart clenched a little as he watched his daughter manage without him, but quelled the sensation quick enough, mounting his own horse.

"It's a bit eccentric to ride, isn't it?" Verity asked. "Why not a carriage?"

"I'd prefer to ride, wouldn't you?"

Verity nodded and took the reigns between her skilled hands. Her father was an excellent rider, he always had been, picked it up as easily as any skill, and she was a dab hand herself, but no where near as good. Not yet at least.

It was still light as they rode. The sun had sunk beneath a lush green bank some minutes before, but a pink and orange umber cast over the fields and road for a long while after. They handed off their horses to the stables and Douglas reached out to help Verity down from her horse. He felt an odd sense of warmth and pride as she accepted his hand this time, stepping onto the gravel with a satisfying crunch.

The house was quiet when they entered the hall and the silence persisted as their hats and coats were taken.

"Are we early?" Verity asked, glancing round at the handsome furnishings and gilt edges.

"Late," Douglas replied. "I hate small talk."

They were shown into the living room and then the servant made to open the dining room door. Douglas reached out to stop him. "Just a moment."

The servant nodded and stood back from the door, watching as Douglas took a seat before the pianoforte and began to play. He glanced up at the servant. "Open it just a crack," He said with a smile.

Verity rolled her eyes and came to stand by her father's side. She watched with admiration at the speed of his fingers, but frowned at the choice of piece. "This one's awfully sad. I told you not to be sad."  
"Beethoven was the sad one; I am merely his vessel of melancholy."

The door creaked open the full way and a servant from within stepped out. He seemed almost apologetic as he requested them to join the company in the dining room. Douglas graciously moved back from the pianoforte and allowed Verity to slip ahead towards the door.

The servant sidestepped into the room and gestured to the new arrivals. Douglas gave his daughter a supportive nudge and followed after, sweeping the room with his eyes.

Good lord, Douglas thought as his glance crossed a man next to one of the empty seats, how disgustingly dreadful the situation had just become in that split-second. The man was clearly nervous as hell, his hand skittishly reached for the base of his glass for want of distraction, and the other tapped a meaningless rhythm. His hair framed his face in cherubic curls, auburn, hanging loosely, with what looked like a vain attempt at taming. Eyes wide and blue, slightly watery, simply adding to the angelic visage, almost as much as the long bridge of the man's nose and the delicate cupids bow that rested on the parted 'O' of his lips.

Douglas blinked himself free of the thoughts. On no earth had he just referred to a man as angelic, worse still; cherubic. Then the man peeked his tongue out from between his lips and licked them, the act appearing to Douglas as if in slow motion. Verity couldn't marry this man. Absolutely not, completely out of the question, not now that his mind was skirting to some ridiculous fantasy where they'd swapped places, an absurd thought that didn't deserve to be entertained.

He found himself nodding at the room and moving slowly towards his chair, the seat seeming miles away. He sat down heavily, heart weighing him down, and spared the man another quick glance. Well, that must be Mr Martin Crieff, and Carolyn had been telling the truth about his looks. Although she could have warned him. Of what? He's so attractive you'll fall at first sight, hard and fast like always, and wish you were your daughter. Oh God.

Douglas fiddled awkwardly with his napkin, giving him an excuse to look down into his lap and not at the vision across the table from him. A vision? For goodness' sakes Douglas Richardson pull yourself together. A thought easier said than done, especially when Martin brought it upon himself to suddenly laugh at some amusement from across the table, how dare he!

"Everything alright old chap?"

He looked up. Herc was staring at him with that disgusting look that proved to everyone around that he knew exactly what was going on. Douglas nodded quickly and responded with an asinine smile.

"Perfectly. How's the wooing going? A lengthy process I gather."

"She'll come round eventually."  
"How many proposals now? Fifty-three?"

"Eighteen, not that it's any business of yours."

Douglas risked a snort and picked up his dessert fork. He snatched a glance across the table and saw Martin staring back. He quickly flicked his eyes back into his lap, suddenly incredibly interested in each individual prong on the piece of cutlery.

Thankfully dinner eventually came to a close and they all shuffled into the living room. Douglas found himself searching out Martin, but he couldn't see him in the throng, nor could he find his daughter. He saw Herc parting the room and making his way towards him, he heaved a sigh and prepared himself for a depressing lecture on happiness.

"It's always hard to let them go," Herc said knowingly, tapping a finger to his nose and taking a sip from his crystal glass.

"You don't even have children."

"Not literally, no," Herc conceded, drifting towards a dipped panel where a decanter stood. "Can I pour you one?"

Douglas shook his head and waved his hand. He wouldn't touch a drop. He hadn't since...well, it had been a trying time and one he was fond of forgetting. For a brief moment he heard the distinct shrill voice of his third wife, but then it disappeared amidst the chatter of the crowd.

"Are you sure? Very well." Herc raised his glass to the air in front of Douglas and took a long swig. "The war brought you back a changed man I see."

"Don't," Douglas said, curt and swift. He didn't want to talk about what had happened. Not here of all places. The room thinned of people and Douglas was grateful for the subsidence of meaningless noise. His mind was swirling with woes, of his daughter so full of life redefined into marriage, to Mr Martin Crieff, who should be polite enough to wear a bag on his head for the sanity of all concerned.

Once into the small hours the room was completely dry of people and Douglas found himself alone. Herc had gone off to chase the subject of his futile courtship and the only sound was the cracking fire and the gentle wind knocking against the windows. Douglas ran a frustrated hand through his hair and passed it over his eyes, resting his face in his palm. It truly was a mess. Love had always been his downfall. Love at first sight, not once, not twice, but three times, had shot him into careless marriages with women who'd left once the passion had dwindled. Two daughters had been his only salvation. One had long since fled the nest, found a life of her own, and now his second was departing her childhood years and so soon he'd have to give her away. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair at all.

He made his way to the pianoforte, lifting the cover and stroking the keys, fingers dipping between the blacks and whites. He pressed a chord and held it, listening as it caressed the room with a soft wave of sound. His fingers had automatically chosen a minor. He began to play from memory, something Pavanne, melancholy. The candles flickered and dimmed leaving what was left of the fireplace to light the room.

 

* * *

 

Verity Richardson was lovely. Martin watched her out of the corner of his eye for the rest of the meal, making sure to fill up her glass and keep up conversation as best he could. Verity felt far too exciting for an ordinary person like Martin. He couldn't help but feel inadequate as she casually quipped about her travels with a light endearing wit.

"Have you travelled much Mr Crieff?"

Martin glanced sideways and saw Verity looking at him with a sparkling intensity, her smile was bright and genuine, her eyes gentle. They were the same colour as her father's, Martin found himself noting, or at least they appeared so in the low candle light. The flickering flames cast a sweet hazel glow over the naturally dark irises and Martin flicked his own eyes across the table just in time to see Colonel Richardson's snap down to his lap. He suddenly became aware that he hadn't said anything in reply and the silence was palpable.

"Um, yes, a bit, well not much actually. To be quite honest hardly at all. But, I'd like to."

Verity laughed, delicate and honest. He felt her tap his arm in a surprisingly warm gesture, a swift touch before she turned to her other side and began engaging Arthur in a conversation about fruit, Arthur managing to meet every question with an enticing and enthusiastic answer. Martin swallowed and wet his lips with a nervous tongue. He'd barely touched any food since the Richardsons had entered the room and his nerves had racked up tenfold. He also had an odd prickling sensation weighing on the back of his neck and shoulders, the feeling of being watched, but every time he looked up from his still full plate he saw close-knit conversations and no prying eyes.

He was grateful for a change of pace when the plates were cleared and they were all invited into the living room. Again Martin felt eyes upon him from every angle, an irrational response he assured himself, but a feeling he just couldn't shake.

"Mr Crieff, shall we adjourn to the library?"

Martin looked to his shoulder and saw Verity positing the suggestion. She looked even more beautiful once lit by the fire instead of the candles, dark brown hair shaped her face in perfect ringlets, the same colour as her father's, perhaps full of a little more vibrance and without the gentle fade that graced the Colonel's temples. Again Martin found himself stuck in a silence created by his mind and he shook himself free of the tangent.

"Of course," He said quickly, following Verity close behind as she led the way through two sets of doors and into a small, but cosy room. The books weren't neatly ordered, but were stacked rather haphazardly across the shelves at every which way, there seemed to be no order, and many books lay in forgotten piles on smaller tables. A mute sepia globe stood proud in the centre of the room on top of a colourful patterned carpet.

Verity found the nearest armchair and all but collapsed into it, slipping off her satin covered heels and laying her cheek in her hand.

"What a frightful bore, wouldn't you agree Mr Crieff?"

Martin stuttered on noiseless air, trying desperately to think of a reply to the question that absurdly contradicted every possible social code. He managed to get out a small squeak of a noise that could perhaps be interpreted as a word, but far from a meaningful sentence.

"I take it you're to become part of our strange little fold, and I'm certain you'd enjoy yourself more if you embraced our strange little customs."

"My lady," Martin began, catching hold of his tongue between each word so he wouldn't accidentally let out a torrent of nonsense. "I'm ever so sorry, but I have no idea what you mean."

Verity laughed, that tinkling laugh that made her cheeks glow. "Once the rest go home I'm sure you'll be filled in, but we don't really have much to do with titles and pleasantries and all of that. Perhaps I'm being too forward, but then they did promise us to each other before we'd even met."

She kicked her shoes to the side of the chair and stood on stockinged feet, stepping forward to meet Martin in the centre of the room. Martin shied away, a little fearful of something he couldn't put his name on. Verity stuck her hand out in front of her and Martin truly flinched then.

"Please call me Verity. I insist," She said firmly, waiting for Martin to lightly take her hand before giving it a steady shake. "In this house it will be fine I promise."

Martin softened a little and his countenance relaxed. "The pleasure's all mine...Verity." The name sounded foreign on his tongue like it shouldn't be there, an illegality. He gave her a tiny smile and she lit up again in complete happiness and relief.

"I knew you wouldn't be like the rest. I had an instinct. What can I call you, Mr Crieff?"

"Martin I suppose."  
"Well, very nice to meet you 'Martin I suppose'."

Martin smiled back, wider, more genuine. He thought about correcting her for a brief moment, but the realisation that he was accepted enough to be teased granted him a great deal of comfort.

Verity slipped back over to her chair and positioned herself curled up against an armrest. She nodded to another of the cushioned chairs, inviting Martin to sit. Martin perched on the edge with less verve than Verity had done, but it was a small step to shake himself of the rigorous protocol he'd had instilled in him all his life.

"I expect you have hundreds of questions," Verity said, carefully extracting a curl from her complex style and twirling it round her finger.

"Yes I suppose..."

"You suppose many things it seems, Mr Martin Crieff."

It was the first time she'd said his name, the first time anyone had used his first name in a long while. He tried not to let it affect him, but truly, it gave him a certain warmth, it felt oddly like friendship though he was entirely unsure how exactly that felt.

"Your father, Colonel Richardson, does he travel much still? Or is he here to stay?"

Verity raised an eyebrow and leaned back further into the chair, finding a more comfortable position. "I meant questions about me, we are to be married you know, but seeing as it's your first time I'll be kind. I don't think he'll be leaving for a while."

"Where has he come back from?"

"Various campaigns for the Peninsular War effort."  
Martin frowned, but he was unsure how much he was allowed to pry. "So he'll be going back soon?"

The light in Verity's eyes twinged just a little, dimming for the briefest of seconds. Martin found the momentary change somewhat sad for a reason he couldn't quite place.

"No, he's not going back soon." She blinked once, then her countenance cleared and the usual smile was back in place. "I get to ask a question now because you're useless. How old are you?"

Martin blanched. Of all the incongruous things to say, the question seemed grievously misplaced and unnecessary, but Martin felt a sense of duty and honesty weighing out.

"Thirty-three."

Verity wrinkled her nose and Martin felt even more uncomfortable. "I was hoping you'd be younger. Never mind, we'll make the best of it."

Martin caught onto her meaning and his heart sank. He wished he could also be so flippant about the whole situation, yet perhaps Verity's off-hand approach to the whole subject was her way of coping.

"I don't know about you," Verity said. "But I don't particularly want to get married. Not yet anyway. I've hardly lived my own life."

Martin gave a small shake of his head. "It wasn't my idea," He said, a hint of unattractive glumness in his voice. "We just need-"

He cut himself off quickly, biting his tongue. It would be very awkward indeed if the first image his future wife had of him was that he was poor and desperate. Verity's brow was furrowed and she looked sadly at Martin.

"What are your parents like?"

"My father passed away a while ago, and my mother is the kindest woman I know."

"You don't strike me as the kind of man to know many women."

Martin laughed a little at this, settling as Verity lost the sadness in her face and turned again to mirth. She really was quite pretty, and Martin could definitely appreciate that, but he still didn't feel inclined to marry her. Not at all.

"I expect the rest have gone home now. I can introduce you properly to Carolyn and Herc, and of course my father."

"I should like that," Martin said quickly, before his mind caught on the words she'd just said. "Who?"

"Oh, the Duchess and Sir Shipwright. She's almost a different person when she's not surrounded by people she has to entertain. When it's just friends she's a beautiful soul."

Martin blinked. He started as Verity took his hand in hers, small soft hands he noted, and guided him towards the door. She carried her delicate shoes in the other hand as they walked down the carpeted corridor to the living room door. Verity tapped him on the shoulder. "I'm just going to freshen up, go in and say hello, be brave, for me."

Martin found himself nodding in agreement, though truthfully he didn't want to be left alone in this bizarre house lacking in social protocol and discipline. He waited for Verity to turn the corner at the end of the corridor then pressed a palm to the wide door. It slipped open silently beneath his touch and the familiar sound of the pianoforte wafted towards him.

Martin didn't know much about music. Someone had tried to teach him to play at some point in his life, but he'd never been much good at it, and his mind drifted too often unless he was focused on something he enjoyed. Still, the sound was beautiful, fixed on low and mid-tones, a complex melody. Martin could sense the rich emotion emanating from the music and in turn, the player.

Colonel Richardson's face was more calm than concentration. Despite the speed and intensity of his fingers he looked like he'd performed a million times before, effortless and collected. He didn't seem to notice Martin standing awkwardly in the doorway. Martin stole into the room as silent as he could and shut the door gently behind him. The Colonel's eyes slid to him then, never stilling in his playing, but watching him as he tip toed to the nearest chair and perched to listen. Shrugging, he continued to play until the end of the movement, then slowly drew his hands away.

Martin watched long fingers, convinced in their movements, slide down the keys and come to rest on the top of his thighs. He coughed lightly and stood to make a formal introduction.

"Good evening, allow me to introduce myself, I'm Mr Crieff." He held his hand out, trying to seem strong and confident, but his wrist felt too limp. Colonel Richardson took his hand and shook it, and Martin winced slightly as he felt a warm thumb brush gently across the back of his hand. He shook himself internally and tried to gather his wits again. "I've just been speaking to your daughter, Colonel. She's...good, lovely, very lovely."

Martin felt like the man was about to draw his pistol then and there and shoot him, which all in all was a preferable option to continuing the conversation.

"You play beautifully by the way," He said, salvaging what he could. "Do you play any other instruments?"

"Most of them."

Martin shivered. He wasn't sure what he'd expected in the man's voice, but it wasn't that, a timbre like dark gems steady as an oak tree. A voice like that should be illegal. Martin was used to not being the most eloquent person in the room, but this was yet another moment in the evening that he'd completely lost his words. He stuttered to form a sentence.

"Don't look so worried, please." The Colonel gestured to a pair of chairs next to each other, indicating Martin should sit down. "And call me Douglas please. I'm sure Verity's been doing various explaining."

"She has and it's been enlightening," Martin said, for want of a better word. "I'm Martin I suppose."

"Good evening 'Martin I suppose'."

That same wit. Martin made two observations in that moment. One, that he needed to be more forceful and confident when he said his name. Secondly, there was so much of father in daughter, and vice versa, those deep brown eyes and arched brow and hair that seemed altogether hard to tame but still fell and framed the face with floppy care. When Verity had made the remark he'd smiled in amusement, yet Douglas saying his name felt different. He gave it a weight Martin didn't think it naturally had.

"Just Martin," Martin said, feeling the warmth of Douglas' eyes go straight to the pit of his stomach. "Douglas, that's a nice name." Martin internally kicked himself, what a ridiculous thing to say, these were words he should have bestowed on the man's daughter not the man himself. Douglas just smiled and shifted his chair closer, an act that was purely functional, but Martin instinctively leaned forward a little too.

"So, tell me Martin, what's the most important thing I should know about you?"  
Martin could feel his heart beating fast, the sensation akin to being questioned after breaking one or several rules. The back of his hand prickled and he covered it quickly with the other.

"I love horses," He said, clearly, with sincerity. "I really love horses."  
"What a coincidence, so do I."

Martin had this strange feeling that he wanted to cry. For some reason that seemed like a good idea, but he wasn't sure why, and instead he blinked hard and tried to focus on looking into Douglas' eyes and not at the floor. It was a hard task. Douglas' eyes were so full of something beyond words, they seemed sad at the same time as twinklingly droll. Martin wanted to ask why this might be, but how on earth could he raise such a question.

"What kind of horse do you have?" Martin asked, biting the inside of his lip in an unfounded nervous tension.

"Andalusian, dark chesnut."

Like your eyes, Martin thought, a sinful exclamation that caused him to bite down hard. He stifled a squeak of pain and ran a hand through his chair.

"And you?" Douglas asked, seemingly oblivious to the distress.

"Dapple grey, although her withers are much darker."

Douglas opened his mouth to say something, but the door had burst open with a resounding crack that startled both of them out of their seats. The Duchess, or as a small voice in the back of Martin's mind reminded him, Carolyn, swept into the room with an expression of exasperation and misplaced anger.

"I cannot put up with that imbecile another day!" She exclaimed, sweeping into the room with a dramatic gesture. She glanced over at the pair of them and narrowed her eyes. "Why are you both still here?"

"Who's the imbecile this time?" Douglas posited calmly, folding his hands across his lap.

"One no is surely enough, but he insists on asking again and again, perhaps the man's a masochist."

"Herc?"

"He proposed."

"Again?"

Carolyn let out a heaving breath through her nose and Martin was reminded of a dragon breathing a flameless fire. The door hinges creaked slightly and a sheepish looking Hercules peered through the gap. Carolyn spun on her heels looking frankly murderous, eyes fixed on the man, she slammed the door sharply in his face.

"You do realise," Douglas began. "That one way of getting him to stop asking; is to say yes."

Carolyn turned to face him and Martin felt wrath enough for both of them. "What are you still doing here? Leave now. Verity's waiting in the hall."

Douglas raised an eyebrow in Carolyn's direction and smirked as he made his way to the door. Martin followed swiftly, brushing down his trousers with shaking fingers, nodding at Carolyn without meeting her eyes.

"Oh, and Mr Crieff, Martin, I hope you'll let me call you Martin." Martin looked up, meeting a softer expression that still maintained its hard edges. "Would you mind calling round tomorrow? I'd really like you to start getting to know my son."

Martin nodded and made a high-pitched whimpering noise of positivity before following in Douglas' footsteps. Verity was shrugging on her coat and hat while Douglas pulled on a pair of leather riding gloves. Martin's eyes rested on them for a moment, following the fingers as they took a riding crop hanging from a peg and closed around the handle.

"I feel far too tired to ride," Verity said, glancing over towards Martin and giving him a smile. Martin realised that she'd never returned after telling him she was going to freshen up. A small part of himself decided it was him she didn't want to see, but then again, maybe she was just giving him time to bond with his future father-in-law. The thought made him physically sick.

"Ride on the back of mine," Douglas said. "We can leave yours here, I'll come pick her up in the morning."

He glanced to Carolyn for approval, but she was eager to dismiss the little party. Martin followed Douglas and Verity out into the cool night. The wind was gaining speed, whipping up a fierce cold that instantly bit at Martin's cheeks. Douglas seemed unphased.

"Will you be alright riding at this hour?" He asked Verity.

She nodded and followed her father to the horse that was being led towards them from the stable. "He really is an excellent rider. He'll get us home safe."

Martin watched as Douglas mounted his horse. In the dim light he saw the shine of her chesnut coat, exactly the same colour as Douglas' eyes, he hadn't been wrong there. Douglas was poised with such ease and grace, Martin could only begin to wish to exude such charm when he rode a horse. Douglas truly looked like he belonged there, thighs resting easily on either side of the expensive looking saddle. Martin's eyes drifted from Douglas' boots that sat firmly in their stirrups, up his thighs and towards his gloved fingers that were curling through the horse's mane, soothing and gentle.

Verity climbed up after him and put her arms round his waist, closed them together across his front and rested her head against his back. Martin closed his eyes for a split second, printing the image into his mind with a few minor changes, namely himself resting close to Douglas' back, fingers entwined against Douglas' strong chest, head slotted comfortably in the crook of Douglas' shoulder, for all the world as if he truly belonged there. He opened his eyes with a soft intake of breath, just in time to watch Douglas kick his legs and ride off into the night.

 


	3. Revolutions are not made with rose-water

The next morning was bitterly cold. Martin woke to find a frost thickening across the field and coating his window in a stubborn coating of translucent white. The skeleton of a tree brushed against the pane, scraping across the glass with a high pitched screech. Martin rubbed his eyes and shook his head of the previous red-wined evening. He'd relived it in a nightmare, though his dreams were filled with urgency and weddings and fear, and Martin passed a hand across the cold sweat on his forehead.

He dressed without thinking and splashed his face with some water from a ceramic basin. His fingertips broke the surface and recoiled at the temperature, but the freezing water was welcome on his heavy eyelids. He regretted catching sight of himself in the mirror, internally lamenting that he'd never seen someone look so miserable. He settled for running his palms across his face a few more times and then once or twice through his hair, before heading downstairs and out the kitchen door towards the stables.

"Morning Karl," He called as he approached the stables, alarmed at how toneless his voice sounded. "How is she?"

"All ready to go. How was last night?"

Martin made a face and ran his fingers through the speckled grey mane that hung unbraided and loose. The smooth motion comforted him for just a moment.

"I see. What's she like? The infamous fiance."

Martin could only respond with a grimace. It wasn't fair and didn't do justice to Verity at all, but he feared that if he opened his mouth to speak a sob would be waiting for him in his throat. Instead he gave Karl a constricted nod and half-smile, inadequate at best but all he could muster, and led his horse out into the courtyard.

He tried to focus on anything else, any other thought would do, but unfathomable as it was the only images swirling through his mind were distorted scenes from the night before. He hadn't minded Arthur. He'd been one of the more agreeable parts of the evening, so maybe today wouldn't be a complete write off.

Then of course there was Colonel-...Douglas Richardson, who he might have a chance to see again if he was picking up Verity's horse, and he'd been agreeable too. Most agreeable. Martin blinked away tears he blamed on the icy wind blowing against his face as he rode, touching his cheeks in two frozen channels that made the biting breeze seem worse.

The Fitton estate rose ominously against the horizon, the russet brick forming the only colour against the frosty landscape, tall and elegant. Martin swallowed and licked his lips, a mistake as they now seemed about to freeze as well. He slowed and leaned back, surveying the gravel walkway from the grand gates to the house. There wasn't a soul in sight so he decided to head straight for the long row of stables and make sure there was some warmth and hay.

He clicked back the latch and let the tall wooden gate swing open, entering the dry building, a gentle smell of fresh straw filling the room. He glanced around, noticed the pure white horse a few bays away, eyes bright and twinkling, tail swatting to and fro with careless abandon. She was an old horse, far beyond the age any noble family would deem it suitable to keep, but Martin saw something youthful in her face and the way she trod back and forth on her hooves in a restless dance suggested she had life in her yet. That must be Gerti, Martin thought, and he smiled. She must be interesting to ride, he wondered if he might ever have the privilege to take her out one day.

Beyond Gerti he spied the distinguished elegance of a deep brown Andalusian, restlessly swatting his tail, which meant Douglas was here. Martin didn't have time to process the thought as his foot caught against a nail and he tripped forward into the slatted wood of the wall beyond. He just had time to place two hands out, but he fell against it with a loud smack as two palms practically shook the whole structure on its hinges. Pay attention you idiot you'll get yourself killed thinking about...him, Martin tried to admonish himself, but he found his cheeks flaring in humiliation despite being totally alone. Then there were loud urgent footsteps and the gate swung open.

"Good heavens!"

Martin's tongue suddenly felt increasingly heavy in his mouth and he pushed back from the wall, brushing his hands against his trousers and straightening up.

"Martin? Is that you? Are...are you alright?"

Martin gathered what little courage and dignity he had left and turned to face Douglas Richardson, instantly recognisable by that voice, not that Martin would forget his face in a hurry.

"I-I'm fine, I just tripped."  
"What are you doing here?"

"Ca-...the duchess...Carolyn, she asked me to come."

Douglas relaxed a little, the urgency in his stance returning to the natural nonchalance that nature had bestowed upon him. "I see, well you won't have much luck at this hour."

Martin's eyes cast quickly up and down Douglas' form. He was out of uniform, but still effortlessly smart in a black and cream riding outfit, perfectly accented from the black leather gloves to the black leather knee-high boots. Martin's eyes stuttered in a poor imitation of a natural blink.

"Oh really, why?"

"The Knapp-Shappey household doesn't really get going until past ten at the earliest. It's a miracle I'm here at all really, but Verity will want to ride this afternoon and who am I to stand in her way."

Martin found himself nodding, simply for something to do with his head so he wasn't staring perpetually at the floor, the way Douglas' feet parted so perfectly in a stance of authority. Martin could only dream of such commanding posture.

"She's being a bit stubborn, doesn't want to come home just yet, so I thought I'd go for a ride until she calms down. Would you care to join me?"

"What? Go for a ride...with you?"

Douglas' eyebrows lowered an imperceptible millimetre. Martin hastened to add something more lest Douglas had interpreted his response as sarcastic.

"That sounds lovely."

Douglas' eyebrows raised slightly the other way. He paused for a moment, looking at Martin in contemplation, then shrugged and went to adjust his horse's tackle.

Lovely? What on earth is wrong with you? Martin caught sight of the offending nail that had tripped him earlier. He had a sudden urge to give it a good hard kick.

"Are you sure you're alright? You didn't fall too hard?"

"No, I caught myself."

"Let me see your hands."

The voice was smooth, commanding, and Martin found himself holding out his palms for Douglas to take. Douglas squinted, inspecting.

"These walls are notorious for splinters, I've had a fair few myself. Aha!" Douglas placed the finger of a glove between his teeth and pulled it off, touching Martin's palm with his now bare hand. He ran a thumb gently across the offending area. "It's shallow, shouldn't be a problem, let me just....there we go."

Douglas let go of Martin's hand and started pulling his glove back on, all while Martin stared. "Thanks," He muttered eventually, unsure what else to say. Who else but the great Douglas Richardson could make splinter removal its own grandiose ritual, complete with delicate poignancy.

Martin watched as Douglas mounted his horse with skillful ease before mounting his own and coming to rest next to him. Douglas was tall to begin with, but his horse was also very high, so Martin felt rather inferior as he looked up at him.

"I was going to try down by the river," Douglas said as he adjusted his gloves. "The snowdrops might be out."

As Douglas kicked his legs and rode off into the field Martin considered that perhaps his previous choice of adjective might not be so conspicuous after all if Douglas was taking him to see some flowers. Martin spurred on, finding himself a good distance behind Douglas who rode with careless speed. Martin almost slipped from his saddle as his eyes focused on Douglas riding ahead rather than his own co-ordination. Douglas managed to rise and fall perfectly in time with his horse, a skill Martin hadn't quite yet mastered which often led to a bumpy uncomfortable ride. He made it look so easy. Martin couldn't decide if he was jealous or impressed.

Douglas slowed as the bank began to tilt, a slow decline towards the swiftly flowing river. The current was fast, Martin could tell even from a distance, remnants of Autumn leaves swam swiftly across the surface in reckless abandon.

"Come on slow coach!" Douglas yelled up the bank. Martin slowed to a steady trot as he edged towards the hill, he could tell his horse didn't like him for it, and he wasn't sure what he was supposed to do in order to convince her down. Martin blamed his pink cheeks on the cold wind.

Douglas watched with one eyebrow raised in amusement, making no move to intervene with help or advice. Finally Martin managed to coax her down the steep bank and he stopped just as the grass leaned more towards slippery than frosty hard.

"That wasn't so difficult, was it?"

"No," Martin said firmly, not wanting to be shown up in front of Douglas. He'd got there in the end, hadn't he? That was close enough.

"There are some on the other bank."

Martin looked to where Douglas was pointing. A delicate splatter of small white bulbs, shining up bright against the faded green grass and brown detritus kicked up by the river. They were pretty, but nothing too spectacular.

Martin murmured something in appreciation then turned back to look at Douglas. He was still staring at the opposite bank, expression pensive, features resting in muted dignified thought. Martin picked out the smallest details in his profile as it stood out against the backdrop of white early morning sky. He managed to look so, Martin's mind chose the word regal, but that didn't seem enough. Douglas' profile was elevated beyond that. He managed to appear so peaceful and contemplative, whilst still giving off that aura of constant grandeur.

"Did we ride all this way to look at flowers?"

Douglas' expression broke into a laugh, one that crinkled his eyes, warmly genuine. "No, of course not. I want to talk about Verity."

Martin's stomach lurched, and his horse chose the exact same moment to lurch too. Martin's fingers were numb and already too loose as they held the reigns. His hands slipped from the leather and there was nothing else to grab. The saddle shifted beneath his seat and he fell the relatively short distance to the hard ground beneath.

He landed hard, his ankle taking most of the brunt force, the impact into the icy earth startling him with pain and shock. It shot hard and fast through his ankle and up his leg and Martin cried out in pain. He barely noticed Douglas' instant reaction, leaping from his horse and heading straight towards him.

Martin watched in futility as his own horse bolted in fright, back up the steep bank and into the distance, disappearing through the fog.

"Don't worry about her," Douglas said quickly. "The estate is closed so she won't get far."

Martin winced as he passed his hand down to rest on his ankle. It didn't feel right at all, he was certain he'd sprained it at the very least, he was praying that it wasn't broken. That was the last thing he needed.

"Can you stand?"

Douglas' voice sounded so distant all of a sudden. The ground was freezing against his back and the numbness was slowly passing through his entire body, it was all he could focus on.

"I'm fine," Martin said, completely unconvincing. His voice had raised several octaves and he let out an involuntary whimper.

"I can carry you."  
Martin blanched. He didn't dare look up at Douglas and meet his eye. He didn't want his pity or concern. He didn't want that from anyone, and if only everyone had stopped bothering him and worrying about handing a wife off to him, he wouldn't be in this mess to begin with. He'd never have met Douglas and broken his sodding ankle and maybe he wouldn't be so cold.

"Martin?"

Douglas was edging closer and Martin felt sure if he didn't give a response soon Douglas was just going to swoop in and carry him off without warning.

"I'm fine, I can stand." Martin had found a little more control of his voice, though it was still shaky. He gave his ankle a brief tap as if to confirm his theory that it was fine, and winced.

"Don't be silly Martin, let me carry you."

Panic was an understatement of an emotion. If Martin let Douglas anywhere closer than arms length he wasn't sure how he'd manage himself, let alone if Douglas touched him, picked him up, held him...

Oh God.

Martin groaned, in hindsight a poor choice of action as concern and worry immediately gathered in Douglas' expression.

"No, please don't," Martin said pathetically, waving an arm in Douglas' general direction and attempting to take a step. "I can manage."

As soon as the frozen ground made contact with his foot, pain shot through his ankle and he stumbled, reaching for the closest thing to support himself. This happened to be Douglas and less than a second later Martin was fully collapsed against his chest and gripping onto his shoulders for dear life. Douglas felt solid and strong, and oh so warm compared to the frosty chill that skimmed across the fields, and now that Martin was in the comforting, though rather compromising, position; he never wanted to move again.

"That's better, easy does it now." Douglas' hands passed down Martin's forearms and across his back. "Let's get you over to my horse."

"We barely know each other," Martin mumbled in a pained voice, hardly even registering the ridiculousness of what he was saying. "I can't let you do this."

"I'm not letting you hobble unassisted back to the house, which I should remind you is over a mile away now."

Martin opened his mouth to complain, but snapped it shut as Douglas settled him into steady arms, one elbow crooked beneath the bend of his knees and the other under his back.

Bridal style.

Stop it Martin. Stop right now. Just stop thinking. The pain is making you delirious.

Martin was a short man and didn't have much weight to him, but he was still surprised at how easily Douglas manoeuvred over to his horse.

"It's not that bad really," Martin protested pathetically. "I'm sure I could walk on it now."

"Nonsense. Let me do this."

Douglas was adjusting the saddle with one hand, Martin still held close, when a loud crack burst through the clouds overhead. The unmistakable rumbling tones of winter thunder and within moments a light shower of rain.

"It's not your day is it, Martin?"  
"Not my life."

"Now now." Douglas clicked his tongue and squinted at the sky. Martin followed his gaze noting the thick black clouds that were swiftly gathering. "I'm not sure we can avoid those."

The clouds seemed to agree with Douglas as they tore open wider, allowing a heavier fall of rain to pass through the sky. It was rapidly growing colder and the rain was suddenly very thick. Martin blinked as several drops landed on his face and eyelids. He found himself absently clinging tighter round Douglas' neck.

"Change of plan," Douglas said, more to himself than Martin. "The boat house is just down there, we'll shelter until this passes.

Even if Martin had disagreed with the alternate idea he was powerless to stop Douglas from adjusting his hold and heading down the river. The boat house wasn't far at all, hidden in a tiny estuary, tucked away into the grassy bank. Douglas struggled with the door handle, resting Martin on one knee as he attempted to turn the handle. After a brief effort he gave up, took a step back, and gave the door a good hard kick.

Inside the boat house it was dry, not much warmer than outside, but an improvement on standing in the rain. Douglas lifted a wooden chair, fallen on its side, with the upside of his foot and settled Martin down upon it.

"How does it feel?"

Martin gave his foot a quick wriggle then stopped as the pain was too much. He took a sharp intake of breath and focused on keeping it as still as possible.

"Not good," He pronounced, a useless diagnosis.

"Would you mind if I take a look?"

Martin's brain felt foggy, his eyes glassed, he watched with a frown as Douglas knelt before him in a swift gracious movement, one hand posited in an open gesture.

"Is that wise? I don't want to make it worse."

"You may not believe me, but I once trained to be a physician, I know what I'm looking for. If necessary I can prepare a splint."

Martin didn't look too convinced, it was a story too good to be true, no one could be so accomplished in one life time. It wasn't fair on the rest of the world that one should occupy all the talent.

"I promise to be gentle."

Martin nodded and Douglas was true to his word, carefully removing the shoe with such great tenderness and then Martin felt Douglas' comforting hands braced against his ankle.

"You should get some new riding boots," Douglas remarked softly. "These only just about stopped a breakage, but they're old and too supple."  
Martin bit his tongue before he said something he regretted about not having the money for new riding boots. He took such care over everything he owned, polishing and mending and stitching where he could, very little was new.

Where Martin had rubbed his ankle earlier and pain had shot through, Douglas was working with pliable hands ensuring minimum discomfort.

"Just a sprain," He pronounced eventually. "Stay off it for a while, no riding for a few days."

"How will I get home?"

"I'm sure Carolyn will let you stay a night."

Martin took his lower lip between his teeth, biting gently, running his tongue anxiously over it. The rain was getting worse if anything, the patter was thundering down on the flimsy boat house roof, echoing through the empty space.

"You were saying something about Verity," Martin said at last, breaking a thick silence. "Before I..."

"Fell off your horse."

Martin's cheeks flushed pink and he ran a hand absently over his forehead.

"Yes, well, she likes you. I don't think that means she wants to marry you, but she will."

The silence felt tangible. Douglas rose from his knee and rolled his shoulders back, then went to pick up another worm-holed chair. He sat down next to Martin and watched him expectantly.

"That's good," Martin said eventually, feeling entirely useless and unsatisfactory.

"Good?"

Martin glanced sideways and saw, hurt maybe, and then he realised he'd just gone and insulted the man's daughter. The daughter Douglas obviously cared the world for and would do anything for, including travelling halfway across the countryside to fetch her horse, and he'd told him that he thought she was, 'good', of all the things.

"She's wonderful, really. Clever and talented and beautiful and..." Martin searched for something else, something less cliché. His mouth gaped for a few moments.

"So you'll marry her?"

There was something akin to hope in the question. A desperation perhaps, though Douglas quickly coughed and straightened slightly. The silence that followed revealed a palpable awkwardness, a shining beacon on them both highlighting that both were useless.

"Yes," Martin said, letting the word out almost as a sigh, and beside him Douglas let out his own muted sigh of relief.

"Glad we got that over with. My congratulations and all, I'm sure you'll be very happy together."

It seemed quite romantic and chivalrous that he'd had the conversation with his fiance's father in a boat house of all places, but the atmosphere was leaden rather than elated.

"Were you glad you got married?" Martin asked. Anything to break the silence.

"I was at first. I married for love all three times, a mistake perhaps, in hindsight. I was sure I was correct every time."

"Correct, yes of course." Martin believed Douglas was probably correct about most things. Though love was a tricky one to pin down and he wouldn't blame Douglas for being confused.

"Marriage gave me my daughters. I wouldn't change a thing."

"Will you miss not having her around? Living together I mean. All that travelling you did and now you'll go your separate ways."

"Everyone goes away in the end."

Martin instinctively reached out a hand and placed it on top of Douglas'. A simple gesture, but as soon as his bare skin touched the leather of Douglas' glove it felt far too weighted, but it was too late to pull away. He let it rest there for a few moments before darting it back as if he'd just been burned.

"I hope you're not planning to move to the continent," Douglas said with a snort. "Marry her, but don't hide her away in the attic."

"Oh of course not, you'll still see each other. All the time. If that's...if that's what you want. No, I meant-...I'm not sure what I meant."  
Douglas sighed and ran a hand through his hair. Martin watched as the soft strands flopped back into the perfectly arched fringe. He wondered if it did that naturally.

"Do you think you'll marry again?"

"All this talk of marriage Martin it's very boring."

Douglas stood, kicking the chair out behind him a bit too hard. He clasped his hands behind his back and began to pace across the floor, boots against wood throwing up a steady noise. Douglas glanced down, looking through the gaps in the planks, to the streaming river below.

After a long tense pause, Douglas turned back to face Martin, regarding him not unkindly. "I would like to, but I fear it's too late."

"What kind of person would you want to marry?" Martin held his breath after the question left his lips. He was being far too presumptuous he knew, but he couldn't stop himself. Internally he was resenting this improbable unknown potential future wife, seeing a blank face with every detail flitting, spending precious time with Douglas, and he was hating a woman who didn't even exist. Martin decided in that moment that no one was good enough for Douglas, and there was the tragedy; he'd be wasted on most people.

"Someone kind. Pretty perhaps, I don't think I'm too old for that just yet."

"I don't think you're old," Martin said quickly.

Douglas laughed, a low rich chuckle that Martin felt directly at the base of his spine. Douglas' laugh was nothing short of nice and he needed to make sure he heard it often. "I'm not as young as I once was."

"What were you like then?"

"The same. Women were falling over each other just for a glimpse of me."

Martin snorted and Douglas threw a wink in his direction. "I had to fight them off with my bare hands, jealousy was rife among my peers let me tell you. Of course, it was all without the touch of grey."

Martin's eyes wandered to Douglas' temples where there were small distinguished patches of grey, dark and blended, still far off from silver. Martin decided he liked them.

"Really, you're not old at all."  
"I'll take that as a compliment. Alas, it hasn't been easy to meet eligible people."

"Because of your work?"

Douglas frowned and took a deep breath. "I wouldn't call charging horses into battle 'work'."

He all but collapsed into the chair next to Martin and Martin saw for a brief moment, just a tiny glimpse, the meticulous facade fall for an instant, and behind it a painful sadness. Martin blinked and it was gone, replaced with airy confidence, and he began to wonder if it had ever been there at all.

"I wish horses were work for me," Martin said wistfully. "To do what you've done, to see what you've seen, I'd like that."

"No you wouldn't." Douglas said it so simply, casually, matter of fact, but with an utmost sincerity that caught Martin's tongue from speaking further on the subject. He attempted to fill the conversation with a tangent.

"Carolyn's a woman."

"Nicely spotted."

"N-n-no no no, I meant, I mean, she's a woman and you needed to find a woman."  
Douglas threw his head back and roared with laughter, such sudden mirth and Martin saw it as particularly refreshing. He waited for Douglas to regain composure, watching as he appeared to wipe away a single tear.

"Not in a million years. She's magnificent, but not my type. And taken."

"Taken by Herc?"

"Naturally."

Martin frowned. "It didn't seem like it. I don't think she could be taken by anyone."

"You're probably right. She has him wrapped round her little finger."

"Do you think she'll ever say yes?"  
"I should think so." Douglas hummed in amusement. "I hope so. I like a good wedding."

"Well, you're invited to mine." Martin laughed, but it came out like a choking cat being strangled, and instantly the mood soured. Douglas gave him a weary look and shook his head, again that faint hint of sadness in his expression.

"Lets not think about that now."

"I agree."

Douglas raised an eyebrow, but didn't press, instead turning his attention down to the slatted planks beneath the two chairs.

"How's that foot feeling?"  
"Much better, thank you."

"I still don't think you should walk on it. Or ride."

Martin sighed in frustration. He wasn't sure why he was taking advice from Douglas. He rarely followed advice from anyone who hadn't been in print, but there was something about Douglas' voice that was so believable, something you could take for granted. He was sure Douglas could tell him to ingest an encyclopaedia and he'd probably go and do it.

"Trust me," Douglas said. "There's no sense in not letting it heal properly. Do you want me to take another look?"

"No, it's fine. I promise not to ride."  
"There's a good man."

Martin looked up into Douglas' eyes. Inviting, warm chestnut that felt familiar, a small square of light from one of the windows reflected back off the rich intensity. He'd have felt embarrassed for staring so long if Douglas hadn't been doing exactly the same thing.

He felt the same urge he'd felt the night before in front of the dwindling fire. There was too much space between them, an unnecessary vacuum, a stress to be eliminated, he only had to lean forward and close some of the gap. Proximity called to him.

"You came to see Arthur, is that right?" Douglas' voice was quieter now, compensating for their closeness, but still drifting towards him with that soft and delicate rumble.

Martin nodded in response, involuntarily wetting his lips, they felt so dry. Not to mention his throat which suddenly seemed to ache like sandpaper.

"We should head back soon."

"Yes, yes perhaps we should."

Neither of them made any move to go.

"We can wait here until the rain stops," Martin said quietly. "It's probably for the best."

"Oh Martin. Listen. The rain stopped long ago."

They were close now, too close. How did that happen? Martin thought with one part of his brain and, why are you questioning it? with the other. Douglas was right, the patter of rain had vanished, and there were very few drops skirting the panes. The rain had diminished quite some time ago. He didn't care. It wasn't like he could walk anywhere either way.

Martin noticed the space between Douglas' eyebrows, how it managed to knit together in concentration, provoking images of wistful thoughtfulness rather than the confusion that crossed Martin's countenance whenever he frowned. Douglas could admit to not meeting many women recently, but Martin realised he was much in the same boat. He considered, he'd never met a woman his age who would be eligible. Wait, no, scratch that, he'd met a few, definitely, he could put a few names to faces even. But, no he'd never been attracted to any of them. Then there was Verity, so charming, radiating wit and beauty, and he had a strong desire to know her better, but he wasn't attracted to her, far from it. He recognised her as beautiful, magnificently so, with all those features that seemed directly copied from her father and then softened slightly. Douglas' features. Douglas' beautifully magnificent and magnificently beautiful features. Features his face was now dangerously close to, eyes scanning, scientifically, extracting information, surveying, admiring, and then-

"Ah there you are chaps! I knew you'd be somewhere so I tried looking places you might be and when you weren't there I tried some places you were less likely to be, and this was one of them, and here you are!"

Douglas suddenly seemed distant. He'd moved back, stood, clasped his hands firmly behind his back, pasting a wide smile on his face that only just reached his eyes.

"Arthur! Good morning, what are you doing here?"  
Arthur beamed back, his own smile warmly genuine. "I came looking for you."

"How did you know we'd be here?"

"Herc said he saw you two riding off together, and then we found Martin's horse wandering round the stables so we thought something might have happened."

Douglas scoffed. "Doesn't his most divine lordship have anything better to do than spy on other people's business?" He murmured quietly.

"But you're alright which is brilliant news!"

"Not quite," Martin said, gesturing to his ankle where swelling was now much more evident. "It's fine, I just fell."  
"Mum wanted both of you to come up to the house so she could talk to you, but I'm sure she wouldn't mind if we called for a doctor instead."

"I'm fine," Martin repeated with insistence, using the chair to balance himself as he rose to his feet.

"And I'm sure she would mind," Douglas said. "Here Martin let me help you."

Martin shied away for a moment, but then noticed that Douglas was merely holding out an arm. Grateful, he clung to it and allowed himself to be helped as he hobbled outside.

Gerti was tethered to a wooden post where she was making attempts to grasp strands of grass that were packed together in the frost.

"Here's what we'll do," Douglas said, drawing his own horse. "I'll get on and then Arthur, you support Martin while he gets his good foot in the stirrup and then I'll pull you up from above."

Arthur was eager to help and Martin noticed how his eyes squinted and his tongue stuck out slightly when he was concentrating on something really hard. With some difficulty, but with Arthur taking his job seriously, Martin managed to get his foot in a stirrup and then haul himself up. Douglas reached out to take his hand and pull him the rest of the way.

"Make yourself cosy, and hold on."

Martin shifted in the saddle, uncomfortably aware that he couldn't escape the proximity with Douglas' now. He was over-thinking each movement just so Douglas wouldn't sense his agitation. He reached for the sides of the saddle and gripped them tight.

"Don't be silly Martin, you'll fall off straight away, hold onto me."

Martin tentatively put his hands just above Douglas' hips, resting his fingers, lightly brushing the woollen material beneath them.

"Très timide, Martin. Come on now."

"Sorry?"

"Coy, very coy. For goodness' sakes get your arms around me."

The man spoke French. That wasn't fair, Martin thought, that was an underhand tactic designed to ruin him he felt sure of it.

Douglas took each of Martin's hands in his own and pulled them across his chest, waiting for Martin to link his fingers together in a tight hold.

"That's better. Don't let go."

Martin had always been an over thinker, but in that moment he simply couldn't turn his thoughts off. The entirety of the ride back was spent letting the same few worries spin threw his mind, a key one being whether it would be socially acceptable for him to rest his head against Douglas' back the same way Verity had the night before. He settled for no.

He'd known Douglas and Verity for exactly the same amount of time, spent a similar collection of minutes in both their company, and now he had to marry one of them. And if Martin had luck, which he hadn't, and if he was wealthy, which he wasn't, and if he had the world on his side, which he didn't, he knew just which one he'd choose to get to know better as they shared a life's journey. But he hadn't and he wasn't and he didn't, so instead he settled for not leaning against Douglas' back and holding his fingers as loosely as he possibly could.


	4. Fools rush in where angels fear to tread

Douglas made sure that Martin was comfortably laid out on a canapé, his bad foot relieved of both shoe and sock and resting on a pile of at least three pillows. Martin protested as Douglas gathered the cushions from various chairs around the room and placed them behind his back. Pausing to gaze down at Martin, he cocked his head as if in thought for a missing piece, until finally he clapped Martin on the shoulder and bade farewell. Martin wouldn't find peace left in a room with Arthur, but perhaps the stimulation would take his mind off the pain.

Out in the corridor he scrunched up two leather-clad hands in a muted display of frustration before heading down the hallway. He breathed a gentle sigh of irritation upon seeing the man turn the corner at the other end, just as he was about to find serenity in his departure.

"Morning Douglas."

"Morning...Herc."

Douglas thanked whoever had the foresight to give Hercules Shipwright a name so available for mockery. In its fullest sense it was ridiculous, far more syllables than a man could ever have need of, but in its abridged format came a certain delight from Douglas' end in using the brevity to pronounce disinterest and retribution in that final consonant.

"Enjoyable ride?"

"It was eventful."

Herc was currently using his body to block Douglas' exit, the front door seemed to be calling him yet he was trapped behind the annoying barrier. The glint of a doorknob as gold as the gates of heaven and just as inviting

"Why are you here so early?" Douglas asked, once Herc had made it clear that passing was out of the question. "Or perhaps you didn't leave last night."

"I hope you're not insinuating anything now Douglas."

"Of course not. Merely observing. Your inference of the statement is none of my concern, now I have places to be so-"

"How's the son in law? Martin?"

Douglas hissed a breath of air through his teeth and let out an obvious contemptuous sigh. The irritation palpable to even the eyes of the portraits lining the corridor, Douglas wanted nothing more than to take his leave of the situation, although he might return later that afternoon to check up on Martin. Maybe...

"A simple sprained ankle. Nothing more."

"Oh come now, you know that's not what I meant."

Douglas met Herc's gaze. There was a pause, during which Douglas felt the air between them shift as they took a breath together, then tensed. Herc's countenance revealed little other than the slightest upturned corner of a lip, but Douglas couldn't be sure if this was animosity surrounding malicious intent, or the man's usual perpetual amused opinion on life in general. After a long while that was perhaps only three seconds or less, Douglas cleared his throat.

"I really must be going. Verity will be getting worried."

Herc bowed his head graciously and swept out the way, lining his back with the white skirting panels as Douglas passed. Douglas took his hat and crop from where they hung by the door with a determined finality before stepping out into the morning.

"Be careful Douglas."

Douglas turned, his hand positioned on the doorknob ready to slam it. He gave Herc the smallest and most courteous of nods before shutting the door. The air felt damp, almost humid, oppressive after the rainfall, and Douglas closed his eyes to it. An absent hand drifted through his hair, still wet and hanging limply against his forehead, he passed his fingers through several times to get some life back.

His horse was blithely chewing on hay where he'd left it, strands sticking out at angles from beneath contented teeth. His hand ran across mane and back before settling on the head of the saddle. He adjusted it, tugging at a strap, then readied Verity's horse to follow along behind.

He made it back home in good time, the softened roads making it easier to ride compared to the compact hard frost of the early morning. It was a relief to be in his own space again. Something about the Knapp-Shappey house made his head spin, ever in charge of his senses the drastic change to the flow of his thoughts made Douglas feel uneasy. He wasn't sure what he'd do in a house like that, what anyone might do given half the chance, it seemed personable and eager to egg him on to possible ruin; not that he could fall much further. The mansion up the rise, surrounded by out of shape topiaries and broken slabs of slate, it was a place where people did stupid things. He wouldn't let himself become one of them.

Verity was sitting at the breakfast table when he entered, still wearing her dressing gown - a soft light blue silk that draped to her elbows - and was spearing a piece of toast on the end of her fork. He came over and kissed her on the top of her curls, then went to sit down.

"You were gone ages," She said, not a question, a firm remark.

"I didn't mean to be."

"Have some toast." Hardly seeming put out, Verity pushed the place of neat triangles towards her father, along with a small ceramic bowl of jam. "It's raspberry," She said, adding a healthy dollop to her own plate before conceding it to the other side of the table.

One of the windows was open, letting a sharp breeze skirt past the delicate lace curtains and intrude upon the room. Douglas watched the pale material rise and fall with each gust, remaining motionless. He glanced back at Verity, currently slathering the latest piece of toast, and he smiled. Her hair was folded in a loose braid that hung across her shoulder and her cheeks were pink from a combination of cold and early rising. The way the soft light brushed lazily across her forehead and the bridge of her nose, there was something of her mother there, Douglas thought, he dismissed this quickly and reached for the teapot.

"I might go back this afternoon if you want to join me?"

Verity grimaced to herself, then turned to her father and made a similar but slightly muted expression. "Why?"

"To check on Martin."

"Check on him?"

"Oh, well..." Douglas began to tell the story of their morning ride, Martin slipping from his horse, a sprained ankle, conveniently leaving out some of the more incriminating details concerning rain and a boathouse. Verity listened intently, brow furrowed and lips parted slightly.

"I never fell off my horse," She said finally, sounding more than pleased but not unkind. "It sounds like there will be no lasting damage."

"You did once or twice when you were learning."

"That doesn't count."

Douglas laughed and refilled both their cups. He liked it when it was like this, the simple pleasantries of conversation in their own private world, no invasion or obligation. No one coming to steal from him the only thing in his life worth living for-...

He closed his eyes for the briefest of moments, regaining internal composure. He would not let himself think those thoughts; he believed himself stronger than that. Verity's hand was resting on top of the tablecloth, laid in delicate repose, and without thinking he leaned across and rested his own hand over it. He squeezed gently, a reminder to himself that she was still there, still tangible. She shifted and turned her gaze towards him, matching his sad smile, alike in so many ways physically they presented to any onlooker the perfect melancholy mirror.

Douglas coughed and reached for the closest object which turned out to be a sugar bowl. He didn't usually take sugar, but he forced himself to busy his hands with heaping several spoonfuls into his cup and then stirring with vigour.

"The ground was very hard this morning," He said, as if nothing but ordinary civility had just transpired, and normality was an achievable concept. "Not to mention the ice, personally I think he did rather well up until that point."

"I'll take your word for it." She flashed him a smile that stopped his grieving heart for just a moment. "You should go visit him then, considering it's all your fault."

He scoffed, pressing the edge of the teacup to his lips, scalding his tongue in the process, but having nothing else to say it was prudent to keep it there for a few seconds more. After Verity had finished what was quite possibly a whole loaf's worth of toast, she got up to tend to her horse and Douglas let her go without protest. He was becoming increasingly aware that every time she so much as left a room it felt like losing her forever. These feelings were irrational of course, and he told himself as much, but he'd spent a life steering clear of rationality and presenting himself as fantastical, so this was easier said than done. Too often it felt like his insides were coated in moss and were crumbling like an ancient statue after years of standing proud in a storm.

He needed to do something, anything, so as not to let himself think. Heading upstairs, he passed his reflection in the hall mirror and started. He was more of a mess than he'd first assumed, and it wasn't just the limp hair or the damp shoulders of his coat. His expression was so desolate, cheeks pallid and eyes hollow, he looked sad, and worst of all, old. Surely this could not be the same man that had gallantly raced Martin through the fields, or the man that Martin had let carry him and care for him. Not this old sunken ship wreck.

The mirror left a feeling of distaste in his mouth and he quickly passed it, making towards his room with hurried purpose. He'd change into something more colourful for that afternoon. Black suited him certainly, he carried off its purported elegance, but it also felt like traipsing to a funeral. His hand brushed over the red wool of his uniform, still out from the night before, still perfectly accented in blue and white and gold, and still burning under his touch. He wasn't supposed to wear it, not now, not after what had happened.

Such innocence on his part, such naivety, that he'd assumed age and experience would be on his side, that he was immortal and untouchable. And then life had proven he was neither of these things. His hamartia had been his faith in ignorance and blind eyes and bribes, and in the end he'd been watched and seen and judged and everything was tainted.

It was love's fault really. Why did he keep allowing himself to fall in love?

 

* * *

 

Martin shifted on the cushions, shoving one up into the small of his back to ease the strain that came with lying at an angle on an uncomfortable sofa. A canapé had more seats than two, but less seats than three, and was designed more for decoration than for sitting, yet here he was propped up like an invalid. The door creaked open and Martin was greeted with the unusual sight of a foot and a lower leg.

The foot shuffled in what seemed like pain, crossing the threshold into the living room, it slid across the carpet with inhibition. After a few agonising moments it was joined by another foot, and then two flailing arms, waggling fingers, and the intense concentrated look of a man struggling against all odds to keep a book balanced on his head.

Martin knew that Arthur was unusual in many respects, but this was a sight he was not expecting to see. It took him off guard, almost as much as Arthur himself when the book began to slide and instead of catching it with his hand, he managed to slap himself in the face. The book tumbled to the floor with a loud thud and Arthur was left confused and nursing a cheek.

Martin opened his mouth as if to say something, but found himself devoid of words. Arthur muttered something in derision of himself then leaped down to grab the book. As he was about to place it back on his head, Martin decided now was the time to intervene.

"What are you doing?"

Arthur turned to Martin and beamed, eyes bright and wide, regarding him as if seeing him for the first time all over again. "Mum says I have to learn to be....refined!" When Arthur searched for words his eyes physically browsed the air in front of him, before a raise of the eyebrows signified that the unduly difficult word had been discovered. "She says I have to learn to be a gentleman and this makes you walk better. I read it in a book."

Not wishing to dull the excitement Martin chose his words carefully. "Is it the book currently on your head?"

"Yes!"

"May I take a look?"

Arthur darted towards him with alarming speed and Martin took the book from his outstretched hand. "Deportment for respectable young ladies," He read from the spine. "How much of this did you read?"

"Just a few bits, but I got the main gist. Being a gentleman's mostly about standing in the right way and walking in the right direction."

Martin considered for a moment. On the surface it was the remark of someone with an innocent disregard for social values, and just beneath that it seemed an incredibly eloquent philosophical point, and once that was scratched away it again was the product of enthusiastic protocol solitude.

"I suppose, yes actually, it's a lot like that."

Martin let his fingers lapse whilst Arthur took the book back from him. He placed it once again flat on top of his head and stared intently at a spot on the wall opposite. His walk was stunted, but better than before, and he made an extra two paces before the book toppled.

"There are easier ways," Martin said, as Arthur retrieved the book. "There are lots of rules you can follow, but it's more about who you are as a person than what you do."

"I think that's what mum's worried about." Arthur frowned, genuinely concerned on her behalf. "She wants you to teach me the rules part."

"I can do that." And Martin could, because he'd spent so long trying to perfect it all himself. It wasn't easy trying to rise through social circles and to make something of oneself, especially when he didn't have a father to teach him how to do it all, or any advice. He went off what he read in books, anything he could get his hands on, pamphlets and newspaper columns helped, and then he'd test what he'd learned. Inevitably he'd forgotten to take his hat off at the right time, or worn the wrong colour gloves to dinner, and it seemed like an endless set of hurdles he'd constantly stumble into. Gradually it became easier. He had an excellent memory, and after repeating these facts over and over to himself and to other people, much to their chagrin, he managed to keep it all inside his brain.

Martin found it easy to talk to Arthur. Arthur said peculiar things that often jolted Martin from his rigid world view, but in a way they were refreshing, and definitely friendly. It wasn't long before Arthur had mastered the phrase "Will you honour me with your hand for a quadrille?" and knew precisely when to rise or sit during a social call. Arthur was a fast learner, clumsy and haphazard in his approach, but keen and resourceful.

As the fire crackled in the hearth, and confused high-pitched voices turned from nervous trepidation to laughter and friendship, Martin felt a warmth rise up in him. He'd never had friends before. Only his brother and sister had been there to bounce off growing up, and now here was the perfect solution to a life on isolation. Arthur presented in his tight ball of energy what Martin needed most in this time of his life; a friend.

 

* * *

 

 

Douglas eyed himself in the mirror, glaring at his features and frame with suspicion, affording himself the briefest of glances before heading back downstairs. He shouldn't be wearing the uniform, but news travelled slowly, and he was sure he could survive at least another month before the scandal broke in England. No one would waste a good messenger on him, he was relying on it, his disgrace was held only in his release papers and in his heart. Verity knew of a dismissal, but not the cause, and Douglas was determined to keep that from her. He'd never let her read a newspaper again in her life if that's what it took to save her from it. His own corruption, at the time made him feel so free, but now it disgusted him. What was the use of love? It had only served to ruin him.

Verity had changed into a cream day dress, hair pinned gently back with a pair of dried roses. She greeted him with a smile and extended both her hands to him.

"You look far too serious father," She admonished, drawing him closer to the fire. Her face was drawn into a mock frown, eyebrows knitted together in a light expression of scolding. He had to laugh, it was the face she'd made constantly as a child, and even younger still than that.

"There's a lot on my mind."

"If it's me you're worrying about I insist you stop at once." There was a moment's palpable silence which indicated to both of them that the statement was true. "Father please. He's a nice man and you seem to like him, what more can we ask for? Go to him, make sure he can at least walk after all the trouble you put him through, and fall in love with him a little more so that you'll approve."

The fragrance of Verity's words took Douglas aback for a moment, but she was merely speaking of fatherly companionship and he should do well to heed her. Perhaps spending more time with Martin was a good idea. If only to convince himself that he was worthy of someone like Verity. He kissed her temple and made to the stables, preparing for the ride.

The distance felt shorter every time, and Douglas was grateful for this. It meant he didn't have time to think. As he approached the Knapp-Shappey stables he saw a figure drawing two blankets apart and folding them over Gerti's back, tucking them into the corners of her saddle. Coming closer, he saw with a sense of dismay and foreboding that it was Herc. He considered riding close to the muddy ditch that framed the stable so as to lightly splash his shins, but thought better of it. He was an adult after all.

"Back so soon?"

"You can talk."

"I'm not back," Herc pointed out with easy charm, casually placing the back of his hand against his hip. "I never left in the first place."

"Ah so that was the case then. I thought as much. If I masqueraded as a leech I wouldn't wear it as a badge of honour."

Herc's eyebrow twitched ever so slightly and Douglas caught sight of a ghost of a frown before his countenance cleared. Herc would never make it obvious that he was put out to anyone, let alone Douglas, so with his debonair attitude he continued to secure the blankets.

"It looks like there'll be a storm later," He said in explanation. "Carolyn asked me to make sure she's nice and warm."

"Stable lad is a bit of a step down from knight of the realm, don't you think, Sir Shipwright?"

Herc flashed him a saccharine smile. "I do it because I'm a gentleman, perhaps you'll learn a thing or two simply by watching."

Douglas would be lying if he said he didn't appreciate their back and forth exchanges. So few could truly match his acerbic tongue, but he'd known Herc for a long time and he always managed to deliver. Douglas never conceded a victory in all those years, but it was fun to spar at least, and they knew a little of each other personally as well. It was a fine arrangement. Not too deep, not too shallow, just enough.

"Maybe Martin will be able to teach me," Douglas said with sarcasm. "That's what he's here to do with Arthur."

"Ah yes Martin." Herc finished fussing with the blankets and flicked the lock on the stable gate. Douglas finished tending to his horse and then they fell in step together back to the house. "I rather like him. What do you think?"

A pause, and then Douglas realised he'd left it too long.

"Well, Douglas. Either you think he's hideously dreadful or wonderfully marvellous, what does the loss of words mean?"

"He's fine."

"If he was merely 'fine' you'd have said so. Come on Douglas, tell me what you really think."

Douglas worried his lip and brought a hand up to fiddle with the edge of his belt. "I honestly don't want to be discussing this. With you," He added as an afterthought.

They reached the house and Herc opened the door, gesturing for Douglas to enter before him. The business with hats and coats was a blessing to Douglas as it was something they could both do without comment.

"He's in the drawing room," Herc said eventually. "I'll be upstairs with Carolyn if you have need of me."

"I'm sure I won't."

"Oh Douglas, don't fight me, I'm on your side."

Douglas turned to face Herc, a bristle rising in his throat. It would be so easy to lose his temper, he very rarely did, but this was one of those times where a smug smile and a single raised eyebrow felt like a thorn in his side.

"What side?" He questioned, voice dripping with calm politeness. "There are no sides. I fear you see me in the throws of battle, but I warrant that I don't need you cheering on the sidelines because there is no war."

Herc shrugged, idly placing a boot on the first step of the staircase. He raised a placating hand, a gesture of peace, and spoke slowly. "I remember that expression from a long time ago, it's not an emotion to be wasted. As I said before — and I truly meant it — be careful, Douglas."

Before Douglas could begin to question, Herc had turned on his heel and was heading upstairs. Douglas pressed the back of his hand to his cheek and felt a surprising burning hotness there. He waited for a few moments, cooling his head and his thoughts, before he pressed the same palm to the drawing room door.

"Douglas!"

Arthur's enthusiastic squeal greeted him from the opposite end of the room and Douglas took a step back almost in alarm as Arthur started towards him. Before reaching the centre of the carpet however, he paused, and with an earnest expression of the utmost reverence he bowed low and extended his hand. Enunciating each word to the extreme but in a single monotonous tone of voice, he glanced up at Douglas. "My Lord it is so good to see you again don't you find the weather pleasurable?"

Douglas stopped in his tracks, a frown crossing his brow. His eyes darted from Arthur's awkwardly prostrating form to Martin's blank face gazing at him from the sofa. "Are you alright?"

Arthur broke the facade with a frustrated short sigh and immediately his body snapped back into the usual casual posture. "Did I do something wrong?"

This question he addressed to Martin, who had a hand nervously dangling near his cheek in concern, and an expression of bewilderment. "No, no Arthur you did fine—"

"Brilliant!"

"It was Douglas' fault."

Douglas raised an eyebrow. "My fault?"

"Well, no, no I suppose— Not his fault as such, but, we should have warned him. You. We should have warned you." Martin lowered his eyes and began picking at the edge of a frayed cushion, twirling loose strands between his fingertips.

Douglas cleared his throat. "Well, Arthur, it was an admirable effort. Top marks."

Arthur beamed at the compliment. He engaged in a surprisingly easy conversation with Douglas, about all his new findings, proudly showing several sheets of paper which were covered in unintelligible scrawls. "It's easier if I write it down, you see," Arthur had explained. The paper wasn't just filled with words, but odd little diagrams and drawings. The most unusual of which involved Arthur himself.

"When his ankle is better, Martin's going to teach me how to dance properly."

"That will be a sight," Douglas snorted, pretending to ignore the sudden flare of pink in Martin's cheeks. "That's actually what I called to see about," Douglas continued. "Is your ankle any less swollen?"

"Y-yes actually. Much better," Martin spoke up, voice still strangely small as it had been for the past two days.

"Oh good."

"Thank you for asking."

"My pleasure. My duty really considering you wouldn't have it put up if it wasn't for me."

Silence permeated the room from every corner and Martin became unnervingly aware of the fact that he was still staring at Douglas with his own blank expression, and Douglas himself found it terribly hard to drag his own eyes away. Yet the silence continued and neither attempted to fill it, despite the uncomfortable inappropriateness of two men staring at each other in a prolonged fashion. Finally Arthur saved both their sorry backs by exclaiming; "Look! Snow!"

Autumn had well and truly galloped away into a foggy distance, leaving a frozen winter clinging to the landscape. The red brick of the house sparkled with frost and gnarled trees stood naked and skeletal, guarding fields of hard earth. It was upon this solid earth that the first snowfall of the season now fell. Quiet flakes graced the grass tips, but soon this delicate descent was replaced with a heavier soft thick blanket. It hit the windows, laying a bed on the sill, drawing up the sheets around the pane. So soft fell the snow that it had gone unnoticed by any of the occupants of the room. They all stared at it now, watching as the clouds cried their last dregs of frozen flakes and the sky became still and clear.

Douglas reacted first, hurriedly moving to the kitchen door which was the closest exit to the outside world. He let out a resolute "Ah" as the door caught in a solid heap, that no amount of strenuous jiggling could shift. The snow had them trapped on a basic level. Chaos leaves the human mind in disorder, and here the snow presented a paradox of peace. So still, so serene, it nevertheless foretold a certain disarray. Douglas' first thought was to the horses, and a quick surveillance of the ground floor found a window that opened inwards and was wide enough to safely climb through. The drift reached over his knees leaving a cold wet ring in the wool — it quickly seeped through the material, spreading both up and down his trouser leg and dripped into his boots. Ice cold shot down to his ankle and he struggled to stay upright in the heavy drift, each step conducted with supreme effort. There was a notch empty in his belt that ordinarily would have carried a sword. Douglas thought of it now and the many times he'd used it to cut through foliage in his path, it might have been useful in this moment, to cut through the heavy fresh mounds.

"Be careful," Martin called out the window, shifting his weight on the sofa to get a better look. "If you trip and your foot stays in the same place in the snow, you'll do the same to your ankle as well."

 _Why does everyone wish me to be so careful all of a sudden_ , Douglas thought with a hint of acid and bile on his tongue. "I can take care of myself," He called back aloud. It was a fair enough statement in the circumstances, far from true of course.

And it only took two further paces to prove this. Douglas flailed, tried in vain to grip hold of something that wasn't air, and then fell face first into the white void. He considered, as he tried to stand and brush himself off, that it probably would have been better if Arthur or Martin had laughed instead of standing in a silent vigil for their fallen comrade lost to the snow.

"The horses will be fine," Martin called, edging forward as far as he could. "Just come back inside and we'll sort it out in the warm and dry."

Martin spoke words of great truth and practicality, but Douglas had a dignity to maintain, and he had to follow through. "I'll be fine," He said, again another frivolous lie, and continued his wade through the snow. He got round to the first corner of the house before he collapsed against the brick and leaned hard against the wall. In truth he wasn't fine. None of this was fine in any sense of the word, but he'd plough on to save face if nothing else.

He was out of sight of the drawing room window, meaning that Martin and Arthur wouldn't be able to see him collapse into the snow. This was a comforting thought at first, if he tripped and planted his face into the fluffy white piles then there would be no embarrassment, but similarly if he tripped and seriously hurt himself there would be no rescue either. Not that rescue from Arthur or Martin would be a helpful one. Martin couldn't walk, and Arthur would probably get him into even worse trouble and somehow manage to injure the snow itself in the process.

But none of that mattered, he needed to get to the horses, what he'd do when he got there he wasn't sure, but he'd think of something anyhow. Trudging through the snow was slow work. The ice melted through his trousers and shot down his boots freezing his legs from toe to thigh. It wouldn't matter if he turned back now, he'd still be soaked to the skin and deathly cold and stuck in a snow drift either way. Nothing really mattered now.

Once past the shallow ditches that surrounded the house and onto the main gravel pathways the snow eased up. It melted easier when atop the terrace and not on grass. Still, Douglas was careful as he made his way to the stables. He glanced at the latch and the space in front of the rickety wood. A smooth semi-circular gap had been created in the snow where the door had been wrenched open. Cautiously he pushed the door and stepped inside away from the hurling wind.

"Oh for heaven's sakes."

"Hello Douglas."

"What are you doing here?"

"Carolyn asked me to check on the horses."

Douglas gave Herc a once up and down look, then sighed and paced over to his own horse. He ran a loose palm through her mane and adjusted the blanket.

"Is there anything you wouldn't do if she asked?"

"There is no need for such trivial hypotheticals," Herc said, giving Gerti a sensible pat on the neck. "Love makes us do strange things anyhow."

"Please don't, I'll be sick."

Herc set his lips in a thinly pressed line and crossed his arms over his body. "You're always like this after a divorce. You have to leave someone you used to love and it makes you cynical to all aspects of it."

"We finalised before I left on my mission, so no, I'm not like this for any reason."

"Maybe I wasn't referring to your wife."

Douglas froze. The icy chill of the wind from outside seemed to increase tenfold, it made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up and Douglas reached up a hand to smooth them down.

"You know." It wasn't a question or a request for confirmation. It was a statement. Douglas could feel his insides twisting, the shame of his recent past catching up to him, brought forward by the storm into the shambolic stables and spoken from the mouth of Sir Shipwright.

"My good friend Horace is head of the Eastern commission, I've known for a month."

"So what, are you going to blackmail me now?"

"I would never do such a thing." Herc took a step forward, his hand hovering in the air as if he might touch Douglas' arm in a reassuring gesture. Douglas himself inched away from it. "Didn't you hear me, Douglas? A month. If I'd wanted money from you I've had more than enough time to get it."

Well, Douglas had plenty of money if it came to it. He'd pay off the whole of England if his daughter could be spared the shame he felt. If Verity could live without his name attached to her then all would be well, it took all his strength to even consider letting her go, but it was his error to rectify as best he could. If money would help pick up the pieces then so be it.

Herc was smiling at him in a tight-lipped and pitiful way. The very expression infuriated Douglas.

"Then why tell me now after all this time?"

"I want you to be careful, I even told you so. I'm here to support you if you need it, we all are. Carolyn too."

"You told Carolyn?"

Herc paused and bit his lip. "It might have come up."

Douglas let out a sound of frustration through clenched teeth and found himself gripping to a corner of the woven blanket that was currently draped over his horse. He ran his fingers over the fibres, finding something soothing in the action.

"I'm ruined Herc. Once this gets out I'll never work again. I'll be lucky if I'm not driven out of the county."

"I can help subdue the noise." Herc scratched his neck with his index finger and looked at Douglas thoughtfully. "And I'm sure Carolyn has something she needs doing around the place. It's not like she'll want references."

"Then I'll have to be near _you_ all day, and honestly I think I'd prefer financial ruin."

Herc laughed, a little hollow, but still genuine. "There's the Douglas I know." He twisted his lips into a half smile and shook his head. "But you'll have to do something for me. Martin's going to be your son-in-law, and he'll make a good son-in-law." He put emphasis on the last words as he repeated them.

"You've got it wrong," Douglas said, his chin lifted. "You're not as clever as you think you are."

"Is that so?"

"Yes," Douglas said firmly, nodding with a precise motion and staring straight into Herc's eyes. "You have no idea."

But there was a crease in Douglas' brow and Herc's eyes narrowed sceptically. He felt a subtle tingling in his face and neck as the lie spread through him, throbbing at the front of his mind, and completely defying the words he'd just spoken.


End file.
